Angelica Austin
Bio
Just starting out writing short stories & really enjoying it! Hoping to get published one day...
Stories (2)
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A Goat Called Lester
From the wonky veranda of the barn-on-wheels, a young woman with cascading blue hair sat in a rocking chair, one leg flung over the arm and the other resting lazily on the wooden stool before her, upon which also sat a travelling mug of cold pea and ham soup. A small goat with beady yellow eyes stood grazing nearby, and upon her shoulder, a tiny black kitten with tufty fur and a petrified expression clung to the folds of her hair. The small boy and girl from the neighbouring caravan, who had come to sit on the grass in front of the barn, watched in fascination as she wiggled her bare toes atop the stool and dimpled cheekily. Addressing them, she told of her daring rescue of Caspar the Cosmic Kitten from the nearby canal, and from some horrible boys who had thought it funny to subject a defenceless animal to the cold water. They had ended up in it themselves it was true, but she’d made sure they had got out again and left them spluttering and cursing girls and cats, before marching back to the campsite with the little dripping animal tucked in her bra. Agnes had helped dry and swaddle it, even fed it with the tinned milk, worry though she might about the dubious claims made on the wrapper of its superior nutritional value. Agnes whom they would meet later, as she was currently communing with nature because she found the barn stuffy and objected to the chamber pot.
By Angelica Austin5 years ago in Fiction
The Locked Heart Society
At the mouth of the tent, a small fire crackled and a figure sat slouched over the prickly remains of its dinner- an undersized and bony fish likely snatched from the slimy trickle that was a stream half encircling the campsite. Legend had it that this particular bend in an otherwise unimpressive body of water, mere perspiration on the brow of this parched and puckered piece of desert, had once seen the end of an entire civilisation. The slouched figure raised its head and cared to elaborate: it sat before a semicircle, rows deep, of other figures similarly decked in raggedy cloth. This was stained and burnt as though they had been wearing it for years before reaching the present moment breathless and sun-beaten, to gaze at the scrawny person in front of them who inhabited it. This waifish individual had an odd sense of being less there than the others, but seemed yet to conduct their attention so masterfully that it did not so much inhabit the moment as command it to sit still and listen.
By Angelica Austin5 years ago in Fiction
